


i'd still have my baby (and my babe would have me)

by Ink_Dancer



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Fix-it fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Richie POV, Third Person POV, also yes stan is still dead i'm sorry, eddie is also a lovestruck dope, fixing the end of it: chapter two, it made me sad so we're making it better, not explicit, richie is a lovestruck dope, they're in love and it's cute that's all folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Dancer/pseuds/Ink_Dancer
Summary: What if, when Richie was caught in the deadlights, he saw the future? What if he saw Eddie die?Fix-it fic for It: Chapter Two in which Richie saves Eddie and he gets to confess his love to a living, breathing Eddie Kaspbrak. And somehow, miraculously, Eddie reciprocates, so they try to start a life together...while also struggling to communicate, trying to heal from trauma, and dealing with the difficulties of their real lives.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 211





	i'd still have my baby (and my babe would have me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Work Song” by Hozier. 
> 
> The only It I know is the 2017 and 2019 movies so don’t come for me if these boys don’t fit a previous image them or your image of them or whatever. I just had a lot of feelings after seeing It: Chapter Two and it made me upset so here's a fix-it. Let’s get this bread!

When Beverly looked into the deadlights, she saw the future.

When Richie got struck by them, he did too.

It was like he was paralyzed, but also tugged out of his body. He couldn’t feel his limbs at all, he was just…floating. A cloud of consciousness. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he was still in the cavern. But he couldn’t sense it. All he could see was what was in front of him.

It started with Pennywise’s voice, in the dark, quiet and singsong in his ears: _I know your secret._ _Wanna play truth or dare?_

“Fuck you,” Richie said, or tried to say, but his mouth didn’t work. Maybe he didn’t have one anymore. He was struck mute here, wherever here was.

_Truth or dare, Richie? …Truth!_

Blinding light flashed in Richie’s eyes, and suddenly he was being shown hundreds, thousands of possible futures and alternate versions of his past. They were flashing in front of his eyes like riffling notebook pages, like a film on ultra-fast forward. He could only catch glimpses, snatches.

He saw his own death, a thousand times—when he was young, as he was now, a decade in the future. Different forms of suicide, murder, death by Pennywise. He saw the same for the other Losers, just like Beverly described. He saw Stan’s death in excruciating detail. He saw strange snippets of himself and—Eddie, together and oddly domestic and apparently happy, but they always flitted away before he could hold onto them.

And then, crystal clear: Eddie on top of him, with him, being speared by some unknown claw. Blood everywhere. All over Richie, on his glasses, spreading across Eddie’s torso like an awful stain.

Richie actually managed to make a noise at that, a strangled cry caught halfway between his real throat and the place where Pennywise had him trapped.

It vanished very quickly, as if Pennywise hadn’t wanted him to see it. Richie ached with anguish as he continued to watch; nothing else mattered as much as that one. He could feel it.

Richie saw other fates for himself, outside of Pennywise’s influence. Attacks from bigots and homophobes—getting shoved and beaten and bloodied. Sometimes the other Losers, Bill and Ben and Mike and Beverly and even Stan, were the ones attacking him and screaming at him, laughing and hurling slurs.

He watched himself get thrown off the bridge in Adrian Mellon’s place. In the vision, Eddie took the role of Adrian’s boyfriend. The clown played the same scene for him again, with the roles switched.

Just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. The deadlights vanished, and Richie was falling. He hit the ground hard, and he heard the screams of his friends. He heard the goddamn clown choking on something, coughing like an earthquake.

Then he felt hands on his arms, and he was being shaken. He opened his eyes when he heard Eddie say, “C’mon, Rich, wake up,” his voice fearful and jittery but excited. 

Eddie was on top of him. If Richie hadn’t just had his brain put in a blender, he’d be more focused on how every inch of Eddie was against him and how _good_ that contact felt. As it was, he listened to Eddie speak: “Richie, listen! I think I got it, man!” and tried to piece things together through his scrambled, dazed head. He settled on it: this felt familiar.

“Eddie!” Richie reached up and wrapped his arms around Eddie, and, on reflex, rolled them.

“Rich, what the fuck—” A gigantic talon slammed into the ground where they’d been lying, sending up a plume of dirt and stones and shaking the earth beneath them. Eddie made a soft, horrified noise that sounded like he’d choked on his breath.

Richie scrambled to his knees and tugged Eddie further along the rock. He pulled until the two of them were behind a rock outcropping, more or less safe, at the very least out of view. 

Eddie was staring at him, so Richie stared back, a mirrored expression: wide eyes, open mouths. Pennywise was screeching in the background.

“Holy fucking shit, you just saved my life,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” Richie said dumbly, swaying on the spot. He was two seconds from fainting, and all he could see in his head was Eddie covered in blood. But Eddie was in front of him, looking at Richie like he’d come up with the cure for cancer, and that disputed the image. Had he fixed it? He felt like his brain cells were slowly liquifying.

Eddie reached out toward Richie’s face, interrupting his thoughts. “Rich, you’re bleeding,” he said, gently touching the tip of Richie’s nose. 

Richie lifted up his own hand, in slow motion, touched the blood, pulled his fingers away to look at it. Eddie hadn’t touched it, but he’d still put his finger on Richie’s bleeding nose. “I’m fine,” Richie said, listening to Pennywise continue to screech and terrorize all of his friends.

They continued to stare at each other. Something passed between them, quick but powerful, and Richie’s eyes widened a little when Eddie started to lean toward him, his hands creeping up toward Richie’s face—

Bev screamed, piercing and shrill. They both jumped, and Eddie leaned back again and dropped his hands, making Richie’s chest pang irrationally. “We have to—” Eddie started.

“Yeah,” Richie said, shaking himself. “Come on.”

The other Losers had seen the clown almost kill them, it turned out. Bev screamed again, and this time it was a name: _“EDDIE!”_

Right after, Mike shouted Richie’s name, just as loud and desperate.

He tightened his grip on Eddie’s arm and shouted, “We’re here!” before immediately starting on a tear to get deeper into the cavern and away from Pennywise. The same talon scraped against the rocks just behind them as he pulled Eddie along, but they made it. Seconds later, their friends joined them, all of them wide-eyed. 

“Are you guys okay?” Bill demanded, grabbing both of their shoulders like he had to reassure himself that they were standing there.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine.” Richie swallowed hard, trying to get his head back on straight again. His mind was de-fogging like a car windshield, but it was taking a little longer than he’d like.

Once everyone was satisfied that the two of them didn’t die, the group devolved into a panic about how to get rid of the clown. Mike’s Native American shit hadn’t worked, and nobody had a better solution. At least, until Eddie posited his “make him smaller” hypothesis, and things went from there.

Richie had never felt more powerful than he did as he advanced on the shrinking clown that had haunted his nightmares (until he’d been forced to forget everything up to and including the love of his life) and had made him throw up from pure fear and anxiety.

He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the people he loved most in the world, holding Eddie’s hand, and pierced Pennywise’s heart with his fingernails.

And with Ben and Mike pulling everybody along, they escaped the collapsing caverns and the crumbling Neibolt house. It was a mad dash, a scramble, full of yelling and jerky motions. Richie didn’t start to really take in his surroundings or process what had happened until they reached the street.

The six of them stood on the road, covered in dried blood and dirty water and crusted grime, silent. Eddie was pressed up against Richie’s side—they hadn’t let go of each other since Richie had saved him from being impaled. 

Finally, Richie realized the sun was rising, and he pointed at it. The other Losers squinted against the light, and then someone started the march away from the pile of rubble that used to hold every fear they’d ever had.

They reached the quarry. Richie’s head felt like it was full of static, and he was struck dumb by déjà vu. Bev led the way, climbing over the railing and yanking her shoes off. Ben followed, stumbling a little, and they all clustered on the cliff’s edge just as Bev took the first leap, her red shirt _(wasn’t it white before?)_ flashing in the rising sun. Richie watched her fall through the air, and felt like he was thirteen again.

They all followed her. There was one less splash than there had been back then. Richie and Eddie jumped separately, but as soon as Richie surfaced, he looked around until he found Eddie again. 

They didn’t speak for awhile as they dunked their heads and scrubbed off the dirt and grime of the night, and even Eddie didn’t complain about the dirty water. He did try not to put his face under, and he picked at the cut on his face until Richie held his hands still. “I’ll clean it for you when we get back to the hotel,” he said quietly, and that little phrase put a crack in the silence. 

“We made it,” Bill said, as if the mention of going back to the hotel reminded him that they really were alive.

“We really did it,” Mike said, voice full of wonder. 

“Stan should be with us,” Ben said. 

They quieted again. “He knows we did it,” Bev said, her voice gentle across the surface of the water. “Wherever he is, he knows.”

A murmur of assent went up in the group. Richie settled on a rock, and Eddie followed him, sitting just a little lower on the same rock, leaning against Richie’s side. Being in contact with him made Richie feel much more grounded, and convinced him more with every passing moment that Eddie was really there. That they really survived, and Eddie didn’t bleed out and die on top of him.

The others kept cleaning off, and messed around a little. Bev and Ben kissed under the water—Richie couldn’t see them clearly, but he knew. He tightened his grip on Eddie’s shirt sleeve and wondered what that moment had meant, in the cave. When Eddie had leaned in.

He wondered where they went from here. 

Then, as clean as they could get for now, they all clustered together and mourned Stan together in a way they hadn’t been able to yet. And they celebrated their sudden freedom, the peace they could feel spreading under and across the town. _They won_.

* * *

On the way back through town, after they all noticed the scars on their hands were gone, Bev started to pull at the collar of her shirt. “The quarry helped,” she said when Ben looked at her questioningly, “but I really want a shower.” She laughed a little, her eyebrows together like she was asking for too much.

Bill nodded immediately, and Ben wrapped an arm around Beverly’s shoulders. “Let’s go back to the hotel, clean up, regroup a little,” Bill said. He had always fit well into that leadership role.

“You’re not all gonna leave right away, right?” Mike asked.

“No,” Ben said quickly, looking around at everybody to confirm. “No, right?”

Nods all around, along with a couple head shakes. They meant the same thing—nobody was leaving so soon. They all fell quiet again as they made their way back to the hotel. 

As they came to the stairs, Richie stopped in place and hesitated. Eddie stopped with him, and all the other Losers came up short too. They all looked at him with varying degrees of concern and confusion. “You okay, Rich?” Bill asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Yeah, yeah.” Richie grinned on reflex, and went to put his hands in his pockets—but he’d left the leather jacket at the quarry. “I, uh, I forgot my jacket,” he said, gesturing back over his shoulder. He jerked his chin at his car, sitting and waiting for him as if nothing had happened. “I’ll just go snag it and be right back.”

“I’ll come with you,” Eddie said immediately.

Richie looked down at him and struggled to find a reply.

“I’ll go get your keys, Richie,” Ben said, and he led the Losers back into the hotel, sans Richie and Eddie. 

“You don’t have to—I know you’re worried about your face—”

“I’m more worried about _your_ face, dickwad,” Eddie said. “I’m surprised your ugly mug wasn’t all it took to scare the fucking clown to death.”

Richie snorted, and suddenly he was back on solid ground. “Says you, fuckface,” he said. “Bowers improved your looks.”

They were still bickering when Ben came back out and tossed Richie his keys, and they started toward Richie’s car without stopping. All Richie did to acknowledge Ben was wave—he saw Ben shake his head as he walked back inside.

It wasn’t until they closed the doors and Richie started the engine that he remembered why he was reluctant to have Eddie tag along. He wasn’t _just_ retrieving his jacket.

But maybe it would be okay. He wanted to do this now, _right_ now. Something about almost losing Eddie made it necessary, like a celebration that he was alive. Still breathing. Richie had to pay homage to that by finishing what he’d started when he was young.

After he got his jacket from the quarry (it was still hanging on the guard rail), he drove away again, but not in the direction of the hotel. Eddie didn’t protest from the passenger seat or ask where they were going. Uncharacteristic for him.

Leaves rustled under the tires when Richie came to a stop on the kissing bridge. He chewed on his lip, trying to muster up the same resolution he’d felt before.

He opened the door without even really realizing. Eddie got out with him and leaned on the hood, apparently content to look around. Richie took his pocketknife out of the car’s center console and walked over to the railing, crouching down next to it. “R+E” was still there, although the E was faded—Richie hadn’t had the balls to carve it dark back then, running out of courage after scratching the +.

Now, he dug the knife deep into the wood, darkening the E. The thing that represented Eddie. Acknowledging it, making it permanent. 

“What are we doing here?” Eddie asked. It was an idle question, his voice very casual. They never used to hang out much on this bridge, but it was still familiar to all of them. Richie brushed away a splinter of wood, letting it fall to the pavement. 

“Finishing something I started a long time ago,” Richie said, digging the knife deep into the last line of the E. He kept the knife in the wood, crouched on the side of the road, even though he was finished. 

“And what is that?” Eddie walked a little closer, his shoes crunching on the roadside dirt. He came to a stop behind Richie, still standing. 

Richie didn’t reply, but he moved his hand out of the way so Eddie could see what he’d drawn. He didn’t know why he wasn’t scared, or embarrassed, but… Eddie didn’t say anything either as he looked, and the longer they just stayed in silence, the faster Richie’s brain began to move. His trashmouth instincts took over. 

“So I did this a long time ago, at first, but I was too much of a pussy to make the E dark enough so you could like see it, and now that we’re back and remember everything I figured I’d do it over again just because of—”

“What does it mean, Richie?” Eddie asked quietly. His voice was surprisingly even. Richie still didn’t turn around.

“I, uh. Well, it’s been a really long time and I’m not sure how to…like, say it, because it’s been just in my head for so long…but after we all almost died and you very nearly got impaled to death maybe I should just go for it—” He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, forced himself to stop the deluge of words, tried to recalibrate. “I mean. When you almost died… I have to tell you this.” He cleared his throat and closed the switchblade. “I, uh. I loved you, when we were kids. And. I still do.”

He never would’ve been able to say it before almost losing Eddie. Despite the swirling anxiety in his gut, he felt more at peace than he ever had. It was the acceptance, the cessation of running from a lifelong fact. 

Eddie was quiet behind him. The wind shushed through the trees and made the leaves dance. Richie dug his fingers into his knees and stared sightlessly at R+E, carved dark and deep into the wood. 

Then hands landed on his shoulders, scrabbling at his shirt. Richie went bonelessly and willingly as Eddie hauled him to his feet and spun him roughly around, then used his momentum to yank Richie’s head down. And Eddie kissed him.

Richie didn’t hesitate to kiss back. He hooked one arm around Eddie’s waist and cupped Eddie’s face with the other, careful not to jostle the wound in his cheek. He pulled Eddie as close as he could with his arms still between them, fisted in Richie’s shirt.

Then, as quickly as he’d started it, Eddie pulled away. Richie let him, of course, loosening his grip a little. His head was spinning—this was more than he ever could have hoped for, ever _had_ hoped for.

He blinked his eyes open and stared down at Eddie’s, impossibly wide, impossibly brown. Eddie opened and closed his mouth a couple times, unmoving, his hands still clutching Richie. Then he whispered, his voice thin and hoarse, “Rich, I’m married.”

(A fleeting thought jumped across his head: _Bitch,_ you _kissed_ me. He did not voice it.)

That should have made Richie let go, made him back away. As it was, Richie laughed and let his head fall, gently knocking their foreheads together. Eddie leaned up into it, exhaling shakily—which only made Richie more sure of what Eddie really wanted. “Do you love her?” he asked.

Eddie paused, then slowly shook his head, their skin pulling where they were pressed together. 

“How long have you been married?”

“Two years,” Eddie said. “I…we dated for seven years and finally she had me propose—”

“Yeah.” Richie leaned back up, tilting his head. “That definitely sounds healthy.”

Eddie laughed, the accompanying exhalation skating over the skin of Richie’s throat. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he said, still grinning. He finally let go of Richie’s shirt and looped his arms up and around Richie’s neck. 

“Of course not, but you _might_ have to explain yourself to her.” Richie’s grin widened until he just looked like an idiot, glowing from the inside out. Christ, he was _happy_. “Also.” He found Eddie’s left hand, still pressed against his chest, and tapped Eddie’s ring finger. “I don’t see a ring.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie breathed, and then he kissed him again.

Richie knew then, standing there on the bridge where he’d carved out all of his unrequited feelings and his young gay angst and desperation, that everything would be okay. Eddie was here, alive, tangled up with him and pressed as close as he could get, and they were gonna figure everything else out.

“So you love me?” Eddie asked as they drove back to the hotel, holding hands over the center console. Richie was driving one-handed—it was a good thing his memories of tearing up and down these back roads had fallen back into his head. “Like, really really?” Eddie added. 

Richie rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Yeah, really really. Fucking loser. I’ve loved you since we were thirteen fucking years old.” 

Eddie was quiet for a second after that. Richie didn’t take his eyes off the road to look, just pitched his voice down and dimmed his grin a little. 

“You don’t… I know it’s complicated, we’re still working shit out and like this is super sudden and really new, so you don’t have to say anything back—”

“Shut up, asshole,” Eddie said, and Richie could hear the smile in his voice. “I love you too.”

Richie had to swallow down a sudden wave of tears as they drove through all of his childhood haunts, places imbued with memories of a childhood spent hating this part of himself. He squeezed Eddie’s hand. He never would have ever dreamed that this was possible. He spared a glance to the passenger seat to see Eddie looking out the window, clearly grinning. _How’d I get so fucking lucky?_

* * *

When they got to the hotel, all was quiet. Richie could hear multiple showers running. He assumed that Ben and Bev were in roughly the same place, and he was almost positive that Mike hadn’t gone back to his strange home in the library. He’d felt it when he’d left with Eddie—a strange anxiety, reluctance, about being apart.

He led Eddie upstairs, still holding his hand. He avoided Eddie’s room, where he knew Eddie’s and Bowers’s blood was still mixed together on the floor. Instead, he brought them to his room. Eddie followed him a little uncertainly. 

Before they did anything else, Richie went into the bathroom—Eddie still following—and started pulling gauze and antiseptic out of the cabinet. When he had what he needed laid out, Eddie hopped up on the sink, his legs swinging idly. 

Richie peeled off the current bandage, coated with grime. Eddie winced as it pulled at his skin. “Sorry,” Richie whispered. He reached around Eddie to wash his hands before he went any further. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie murmured, shifting to give him room. 

When his hands were clean, Richie prodded the wound, just a little. “You’ve…just got a straight up fucking hole in your face,” he said, his voice still pitched low. It felt wrong to talk at full volume here, squished so close together in this bathroom. 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, with a little shrug. “I could taste the metal. All I could really think at first it was a fuckin’ ghost because Bowers? What the hell? And then it hurt like a bitch and all I could think was ‘damn I’m gonna get HIV from this goddamn unwashed knife and die in this shitty hotel’ and—anyway. I could feel the edge of the knife with my tongue.”

Rage flashed through Richie, the same feeling that had burned in his stomach when he’d met up with Eddie and the others at the library and found out what Bowers had done. (He’d gone running over, asking Eddie a million questions. He’d ended up making Eddie laugh enough that it tugged at the wound and hurt him a little.) It was, then and now, mixed with a strange sense of guilt—that it had happened while he’d been trying to run away.

“Shouldn’t you get stitches?” he asked, because if he tried to voice any of that, he’d probably cry or something equally stupid. 

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, at some point. Like for _sure_. But for now we can just keep it clean—and I mean _clean_ , like really clean—and get it looked at later.” The way he said “later” was awed, like he couldn’t believe there _was_ a later. Richie could attest to that. Especially the “we” part of that “later.”

They hadn’t talked more about it yet. Hadn’t even kissed again. It was so new, especially after repressing it for his whole childhood and forgetting it for over two decades… For once in his life, Richie wanted to take something slow. Especially since he had the time to do so.

He swabbed Eddie’s cheek with the antiseptic, thoroughly cleaning out the wound and the surrounding skin. Eddie didn’t squirm or protest, but he did flinch. Richie tried to be as gentle as he could, gripping Eddie’s chin between three fingers to keep him still. 

A few lazy drops of blood leaked out of the gash, and Richie cleaned that up too. It was still so fresh, even though it felt like a lifetime had passed between now and when Eddie had gotten hurt.

Finally, it seemed as clean as it could be, and Eddie deemed it acceptable. So Richie fashioned a new bandage from the gauze and very, very carefully applied it to Eddie’s skin.

“Did it feel good?” Eddie asked nonsensically as Richie ran his fingers over the medical tape, pressing it onto Eddie’s face and testing to see if it would stay. 

It took him a hot second to piece together from context what Eddie was talking about. “Um,” he said eloquently, ripping off one more piece of tape to affix the bandage. “I guess.”

Hitting Bowers with an axe actually _had_ felt pretty good, especially in the moment, since he’d been so actively trying to murder Mike. And also because of all the shit that weaselly motherfucker had put his friends through all those years ago, and all the nasty things he’d said to Richie. He forever associated his greatest trauma around being gay, around being called “fag,” with Bowers. Even when he’d left Derry and forgotten _Eddie’s_ name, he vaguely remembered that boy who’d made him afraid of himself.

But also, killing someone had been gross and awful. Which was to be expected. “I’m glad he’s dead,” Richie said as he stepped back from Eddie, content with his job on the bandage. “And it was definitely warranted. But, you know, I puked. It wasn’t _good_. Killing people doesn’t feel great.” 

Eddie nodded thoughtfully but didn’t probe beyond that. 

“D’you want to shower first?” Richie asked, gesturing at the bathtub to their left. 

Eddie hopped off the sink, smiling. “What, you don’t want to join me?”

Even as Richie grinned, he shook his head. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon for that?” he asked.

“Maybe.” Eddie pinned him with an almost-unreadable stare. “Didn’t think that would stop you.”

Richie stepped back a little, stung in spite of himself. “You, uh. You thought wrong.”

A sudden, tense silence descended on the bathroom. Eddie looked down at the floor.

Richie rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, just. Eds, this is kinda sudden, y’know? For both of us. Three days ago we didn’t remember each other.”

Eddie leaned against the sink, not looking up. “Kinda wish that was still the case,” he quipped, barely smiling.

“Okay, c’mon. Fuck off.” Richie scoffed and looked away. “I don’t wanna fight with you—”

“We’re not fighting.”

“We’re _kinda_ fighting, Eds.” Richie went to stuff his hands in his pockets but was once again stymied by his lack of jacket. He shook them like they were wet, irritated. “I care a lot about you, okay, douchebag? More than anybody else, maybe ever. I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

Eddie didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms.

“I just want to know where your head’s at,” Richie said. “I feel like this whole thing’s been centered on me, and I want to get more of a sense of how you’re feeling before we, like, keep going.”

“I told you I love you,” Eddie said softly. He was still looking at the floor. 

“Yeah, right after you reminded me that you’re _married_.” Richie took a deep breath. “I just want to know if we’re doing this for real, and how much we should even be expecting from each other. Like, a sense of your…headspace, here.”

“That’s where you’re getting hung up?” Eddie finally looked up, meeting Richie’s eyes through his eyelashes. He looked very vulnerable right then, with the fresh bandage on his face and his still-grimy clothes.

“I mean, I guess?” Richie frowned. Eddie’s face was creased like he was thinking too hard. Richie wanted to grab him and smooth it out. “I also just don’t—I don’t wanna rush you. This shit is complicated.”

“Such a gentleman.” Eddie cracked a little smile. “So, you want to know if I’m all in. Essentially.”

Richie tugged on one of his earlobes, trying not to shift in place. “Yeah. Only…not in an asshole way.”

“You do everything in an asshole way, Rich.” Eddie reached up to pick absently at edge the bandage. 

“Gee, thanks.” Richie looked away, sightlessly focusing on the shower curtain for a moment.

Eddie was quiet. Then he said, “You said you loved me when we were kids. I think I loved you then too, and I just…forgot.”

Richie didn’t say anything, although he really wanted to talk more about this—the fact that they loved each other when they were young, and in another timeline, could have had something twenty-seven years ago. But he stayed quiet.

“And there’s—more to it than that, but…” Eddie waved this train of thought away, visibly on edge. “But what’s important is that when Mike called, I didn’t crash my car because of him or the clown or Derry—it was you.” His eyes were wide, earnest, boring into Richie’s. “You just fell back into my head and…a lot of things that didn’t make sense before suddenly did, and a lot of stuff with Myra made sense too, and I sorta just. Decided to hell with it.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Richie furrowed his brow.

Eddie sighed. “As soon as Mike hung up, and I went home to pack and get my stuff, I decided I wasn’t going back.” He wasn’t looking at Richie anymore, his eyes fixed on the floor, but his eyes were wide. Richie followed the motion of his throat as he swallowed. “That’s why I brought so much shit. I knew I wasn’t going back to Myra, no matter what. Even if you didn’t feel the same or… I figured once I saw you, I’d know. And I did.” He shrugged, a little half-thing with just one lifted shoulder. “I wanted to leave with you, if we lived. And here we are.”

Richie stared, unable to speak. _All in_. This went beyond being all in. “You were ready to leave with me before we even got here?” His voice was hoarse suddenly, like it was falling out of his throat.

“I mean, don’t flatter yourself. It was more about leaving Myra.” Eddie chuckled awkwardly and tugged on his nose with a sniff. “But once we got here, yeah.”

“You were really gonna leave with me,” Richie said softly. When he’d been yelling up the stairs, calling _Eduardo, andale, let’s go!_ he hadn’t actually thought Eddie was coming _with_ him. He thought they were just going, getting out, escaping. No real intent. _Holy shit._

“Yeah,” Eddie said, once again fiddling with the bandage. “I really was.”

Richie closed the gap between them and cupped Eddie’s face, avoiding the gash in his cheek. When he kissed Eddie, his mouth was already half-open, like he was going to say something. Eddie let out a soft, satisfied noise and leaned in, his hands snaking up into Richie’s hair.

This one felt different—less desperate. Richie took stock of the way Eddie’s jaw felt against his palm, the taste of him. He was soft and his hands were gentle in Richie’s hair and this felt so _right_ in a thousand ways, like they were fulfilling some sort of destiny.

Eddie tilted his head, breaking the kiss and briefly bumping their noses together. “Sure you don’t want to join me in the shower?”

Richie laughed, still holding Eddie’s face in one hand. “Pretty sure.”

Eddie tugged playfully on Richie’s hair. “Then please go get my shit from my room. I’m gonna need clean clothes when I get out.”

“Your wish is my command.” Richie, overriding his self-consciousness, kissed Eddie’s forehead before releasing him and heading for the door. He flicked the bathroom fan on and said, “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s clean towels over the toilet.”

Eddie had already crossed to the shower and flicked it on, the rush of running water undercutting his next words. “I know how hotel bathrooms work,” he said.

“Be fast, please, I feel disgusting,” Richie said over his shoulder as he stepped out of the bathroom.

“You _are_ disgusting,” Eddie said just before Richie closed the door. Richie just shook his head and grinned at the ceiling. 

Opening the door to Eddie’s room made Richie physically tense up. But in the main part, with the bed, all looked normal. Eddie’s four suitcases were all zipped up, standing at attention in an even line.

Richie rolled his eyes fondly and hauled them to his room. As he worked, he tried not to look at the spots of blood on the carpet. 

When the cases were all moved, he went back in one last time to do a sweep for anything Eddie might’ve not had in a bag. He found Eddie’s phone and a few pill bottles before he reached the bathroom.

He had to swallow hard before he pushed open the door. It creaked when it swung open, revealing the mess on the floor. The blood was dry and browning, and the stink of it hit Richie hard. He stepped around it to scoop up Eddie’s toiletries and then managed to walk away without turning around to look at it again. Vicious fury swirled in his stomach, and his hands twitched. _Maybe I am glad I killed that rat bastard_.

Back in his room, he dug out fresh clothes for Eddie and knocked on the bathroom door. He heard something fall, followed by a cut-off curse. “What?” Eddie shouted.

“I just—I have the clean clothes for you.” Richie pressed his ear to the wood. “Can I just drop ‘em real quick?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.”

Richie eased the door open and just leaned in, not taking his feet over the threshold. He put the pile of clothes on the closed toilet and allowed himself a single darted glance in the direction of the shower. All he could see was the vague shadow of Eddie. His mouth went dry. 

“Clothes on the toilet,” he said, around what felt like a mouthful of cotton.

“Thanks, shithead,” Eddie said absently, as if he was thinking of something else.

Richie retreated and closed the door. He had to go lie down for a few minutes.

Eddie finished relatively soon after that, and he opened the door with a billow of steam. He looked soft and rumpled, his hair wet and sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed. The sweatpants and T-shirt that Richie had chosen for him were hanging off his frame, like he’d brought clothes that were too big for him.

“Your turn,” Eddie said with a yawn, like he had _no idea_ what any of this was doing to Richie.

Richie considered all of this as he pressed his forehead against the shower wall, letting the the dirt and filth and shit run off of him. “I’m so fucked,” he whispered, his voice muffled under the rush of water. 

* * *

Once everyone was clean and felt a little better, they all met downstairs in the bar. Giddy and celebratory, they got drunk and loud. Just like at the restaurant, but happier—it was sinking in more and more that it was over, and they were free. The underlying fear had vanished.

Richie and Eddie got some funny looks when they came in, with Richie’s arm slung over Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie tucked tightly against Richie’s side. Richie caught Bev’s eye, and she raised her eyebrow, tilting her head at him. He shook his head back and mouthed _Later_ , and she smirked and looked away, letting it drop.

A little while after that, Richie pulled Mike aside. Eddie was laughing with Bill now, happy and safe. Richie was feeling better than before, and it didn’t feel quite so much like Eddie was just randomly going to get impaled or that this was all some cruel dream put in his brain by Pennywise. So he had to ask: “Are we gonna forget again?”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t think so. The fear, the forgetting, the indifference of our parents…that was all from Its influence.” He smiled, and clapped Richie’s shoulder. “We have good things to remember now, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Richie nodded, swallowed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” _But I had good things before. We all did_.

They stayed together for the rest of the day, all reluctant to leave each other for long. It felt as if the fact that they’d won hinged on them staying together. But come nightfall, the world felt a little more real, and like what they’d accomplished wasn’t reversible.

Bev begged off to bed first, looking happier than Richie had literally ever seen her. She didn’t have anything weighing her down anymore. 

Ben followed her closely, which Richie tried not to laugh about. He knew they weren’t gonna get up to any straight bullshit tonight—probably. But it was still funny.

Then Eddie yawned, and when he started to get up, Richie instinctively followed suit. (If he was laughing at Ben and Beverly, he deserved the exact same treatment. Jesus Christ.) They left Bill and Mike still chatting over a bottle of whiskey, and Richie followed Eddie up the stairs.

When they reached Richie’s room, Eddie hesitated. So Richie reached forward and opened the door for him, gently nudging his shoulder. “What, d’you want to sleep in the room covered in your own blood?”

Eddie winced, and Richie immediately felt bad. “No,” he said in a low mutter.

“If you don’t want to stay with me, that’s fine too.” Richie stuck his hands in his pockets, grateful that he was wearing his jacket again. 

“No, of course I do.” Eddie stepped inside as if to prove it, and Richie followed him, easing the door shut. Eddie sat on the edge of the bed, looking small and tired.

Richie sat a full six inches away from him, just in case. “You okay, Eds?” he asked, voice low.

“I’m fine.” Eddie scrubbed hisforehead with one hand, and Richie got the sense that he’d run his hand over his whole face if it wasn’t for the cut in his cheek. “It’s just so weird,” he said, in a quiet and confessional tone. “That we’re alive and shit.”

“Yeah.” Richie bobbed his head like an idiot. “But we _are_ alive. Everything’s okay.”

“I know.” 

They were both quiet for a second. Then Eddie reached across the space between them and grabbed Richie’s hand, pulling it back toward his body and entangling their fingers. Richie’s chest suffused with warmth, and he squeezed Eddie’s hand. “What do you need?” he asked. _God_ , he felt so weird. Vulnerable, stripped down. But…it was good.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Eddie said, but he sounded reluctant. “But I don’t know what you had in mind, and like…you know I’m all in and shit, but we should probably talk about the future—”

“No, let’s just get some sleep,” Richie said. “I’ll still be here in the morning. We both will. We’re fine, all that shit can wait.”

Eddie looked up at him, but sideways, like a puppy. “Yeah?”

Richie would agree to anything Eddie said when he was looking at him like that. “Yeah, of course.”

Eddie smiled, and _shit_ , making Eddie smile should be Richie’s full time job. Fuck comedy, fuck clown-killing, fuck all of it. 

They got into bed a little awkwardly, and Richie reached over Eddie to turn the light off and put his glasses on the side table. They both shifted around for a few seconds before Richie settled into place a solid foot away from Eddie, facing Eddie’s back.

It was dark, and quiet, and Richie’s brain was hyperdrive, as usual. He considered flipping over onto his back, but he wanted to keep facing Eddie, even if he was blurry.

He began falling into a spiral where he was convinced that if he fell asleep, he’d wake up with Eddie bleeding out next to him. He didn’t realize how heavily he was breathing until he felt the bed sink a little next to him and felt Eddie’s hand lightly bat at his arm. “You good?” he heard Eddie whisper.

On reflex, Richie reached out and wrapped his arm around Eddie’s waist, tucking them securely together and wrapping himself around Eddie’s back. Eddie made a soft noise, one of surprise but not displeasure, and shifted in Richie’s grasp so his head was closer to Richie’s chin. “Better,” Richie murmured, and Eddie let out a chuckle that was more of an exhale. “I…we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, and his voice was already muzzy with sleep. He pressed his shoulders back against Richie’s chest, and the solidness of it made the tension bleed out of Richie’s muscles. “In the morning.”

They fell asleep like that. Richie’s brain was blissfully quiet as he listened to Eddie’s steady breathing. Pure exhaustion pulled him into the dark, and then he wasn’t thinking anymore.

* * *

Richie had nightmares. He slept deeply, the warmth of Eddie keeping him asleep, but his subconscious didn’t quite take the hint.

He dreamed of Eddie getting impaled, over and over. The blood running over the both of them, splattering on his glasses, getting in his mouth. He sobbed and swore and tried to move, tried to save him, but he was paralyzed. Forced to watch, to bear witness, to be covered in hot blood over and over and over again.

He woke up with a gasp and a spring in his spine, propelling him up into a sitting position and startling Eddie awake when he fell off of Richie. “Rich?” he asked, clearly still half asleep, his voice fuzzy in Richie’s pulse-filled ears.

“Go back to sleep,” Richie said, his voice only a little strangled. His cheeks were wet, he realized with horror, and he scrubbed at them with the backs of his hands. His eyes were gritty, as if his sleep hadn’t been restful. _Jesus, I wonder why_.

“Are you okay?” Eddie sounded more awake now. He sat up too, the sheets rustling under him as he moved toward Richie. 

Leaning away, Richie fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table and looked at the time. Six a.m. _Fuck_. “I’m okay,” he said, and he was breathing easier, so it at least sounded plausible. “Just go back to sleep.” He put his face in his hands, sticking his fingers under his glasses to cover his eyes. 

“Fuck off,” Eddie grumbled, but without any heat behind it. “You’re obviously not fine.”

Richie felt him shift, maybe up onto his knees, in front of him. Then he felt Eddie’s gentle fingers on his wrists, and he didn’t resist when Eddie pulled his hands away from his face. Instead, he swallowed and looked down, avoiding Eddie’s gaze.

“Richie, what’s wrong?” he asked softly. 

“I saw you die,” Richie said, all in a rush. 

He looked up, miserable, and met Eddie’s gaze for the first time. He couldn’t see Eddie’s face very clearly in the dark, but his eyes were wide, his jaw slack. “I—what?”

Richie winced, wishing he’d been more tactful. “You _died_. When I was…when he had me with the deadlights, I saw you die. _He_ showed me.” He swallowed and leaned back, putting his elbows on his bent knees. “That’s how I knew to get you out of the way. With the…the claw.”

“Jesus,” Eddie whispered.

“Yeah.” Richie closed his eyes and rubbed the tear tracks until he couldn’t feel the salt on his skin anymore. “And I kept thinking that us winning was all a trick, and that if I went to sleep I’d wake up and you’d be bleeding and…” He couldn’t get himself to finish the sentence. He just pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes and took a shuddering breath.

Fingers shakily threaded through the hair at his temples, and Richie felt Eddie press a kiss against his forehead. Richie opened his eyes to see Eddie, so close. He cupped Richie’s jaw with one hand and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m alive,” he murmured, his nose bumping against Richie’s. “Can you feel me? I’m alive.” 

“I can feel you,” Richie breathed. He could feel the heat of Eddie’s skin, Eddie’s breath on his lips, the sparks in every place they were touching. Eddie felt alive.

“I’m okay. You saved me. I’m all right.”

Richie sighed. Then he dropped his knees out of the way and hauled Eddie into his lap, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie didn’t resist or make a noise, just readjusted and cradled Richie’s head, running his fingers through his hair. He didn’t say anything else, and Richie just held him, listened to his heartbeat and his breathing and finally, finally, started to calm down. 

They stayed like that for a long time. Richie almost fell asleep again. But the sun eventually started to carve its way into the room between the curtains, and Richie slackened his grip on Eddie, a little reluctant to let him go. “We should…I dunno, get dressed,” he said, tilting his head back to look up at Eddie.

“Yeah.” Eddie smiled down at him. Now that it was brighter in the room, Richie could see that they needed to change the bandage on his face again—the wound didn’t seem to have bled anymore, but the tape was peeling up. 

“I gotta change that,” he said, tapping Eddie’s cheek. 

“That’s a good place to start.” Eddie swung himself off of Richie’s lap, and away they went.

Twenty minutes later, they meandered their way down to the bar. Mike was already there waiting for them, with bags of McDonalds breakfast sandwiches. “I’m glad we’re not the first one’s up,” Richie said as he snagged a McMuffin. 

“You’re the last, actually,” Bill said, appearing suddenly from the lobby. “Ben and Bev stepped out to Dunkin’, but they were up at like five.”

“Shit.” Eddie raised his eyebrows as he stole three ketchup packets from Richie. “What about you guys? How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t, really,” Bill said, sitting down across from them. “Tossed and turned. Mike?”

Mike shrugged. “Not great.” When all of them stayed quiet, looking down morosely, he quickly added, “It’s gonna get better. The further out we get, the better it will be.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Richie said. He took a huge bite of the sandwich, eager to move on. “Did you say that Ben and Bev went to get Dunks?”

“Yeah.” Bill rolled his eyes, smiling. “Apparently there’s some discourse between Dunks and McDonalds breakfast. Also, they specifically wanted coffee.”

“Heathens.” Richie shook his head. “Dunks sucks.”

“You’re a bad Mainer,” Mike said, laughing.

“I barely even remembered Maine until like three days ago!” Richie protested. “Besides, being a Mainer doesn’t mean you have to like Dunks. I don’t even like lobster.”

“Yeah, lobster sucks,” Eddie piped up.

“Oh, come on,” Bill said, leaning back in mock disgust. “That’s just blasphemous.”

They continued to bicker until the hotel’s front door opened, and then suddenly Ben and Beverly were at the table with them. After the hellish dreams Richie’d had, it felt good to be with all his friends in the same room again.

They slowly started talking about where they were going next. Beverly, holding Ben’s hand, talked about her decision to divorce her husband, and Richie tried not to look at the bruises on her arms. (He wasn’t an idiot. He knew they’d been there before all this clown shit went down. He’d seen them at the restaurant the first night. He was glad she was leaving the piece of shit that did that.)

Ben picked up for her when she trailed off and talked about his architecture firm, and how Bev was gonna come and stay with him until they decided what the future really held for them. It sounded nice, they all agreed. 

Bill also seemed _quite_ pleased to return to his life, his lovely-sounding wife, the books he intended to make better. Mike talked about finally leaving Derry, about traveling. Also nice, Richie thought.

Richie and Eddie were quiet. Nobody asked them, either, seeming to sense their lack of answers. But Bev looked at Richie across the table, the same look she’d given him last night. Richie, in turn, looked at Eddie. Maybe they didn’t have answers about the future, but what about right now?

Eddie looked back and shrugged. 

Bev piped up. “So, uh. What’s going on with you two?” she asked, gesturing between them. Her eyes were practically sparkling. Everybody else stopped talking and paid attention, looking between the three of them.

Richie and Eddie immediately avoided each other’s eyes. “I, uh…” Richie said eloquently.

“Shut up, Bev,” Eddie said, turning furiously red.

“I _knew it_!” Beverly cried, slamming one of her open palms on the table. “Oh my god, I knew it!”

_“Shut up, Bev!”_ Richie and Eddie said together, but Eddie was smiling. Richie felt like an idiot, his face was split open in a grin.

“What’s going on?” Bill asked, brow furrowed.

Ben grinned, doing that thing where he looked up through his lashes like a puppy. Very endearing. “Bev and I aren’t the only ones who’ve…reconnected.”

“Fine. _Yes_. At least we didn’t kiss a disgusting, _staphylococcus-_ filled lake,” Eddie said. “That was so fucking gross, you should be _so_ concerned—”

“Where _did_ you kiss?” Bev asked, pressing her hand over her mouth as soon as she was done talking, apparently stifling laughter.

“The kissing bridge,” Richie said before he could stop himself, then put his head in his hands when everyone started laughing.

“Very romantic,” Mike said when they all calmed down, and he was sincere as he smiled at the two of them. “It’s about time.”

“Yeah, God, _finally_ ,” Bev said, shaking her head. “It only took you twenty-seven years.”

“Hey! We didn’t remember each other!” Richie said.

“Also, couldn’t you guys have done anything to help if it was so obvious?” Eddie snapped.

“You needed to get there on your own,” Ben said. Bev and Mike nodded along sagely, suddenly looking rather serious.

“Am I the only one who didn’t know this was a thing?” Bill asked, spreading his arms and looking dumbfounded. 

“Yes,” said Bev and Mike and Ben, at the same time as Richie and Eddie said “No.” The room erupted in laughter.

And that was…that. The other Losers didn’t push, didn’t ask about Eddie’s wife or what their plans were. Richie mentally compared what Pennywise had showed him—his friends being violent and cruel and just like Bowers—with the truth in front of him. He felt a surge of vindication, and he reached over to hold Eddie’s hand. _Fuck you, you fucking clown. You didn’t know shit._

* * *

The day passed slowly. Nobody was really sure of what to do. At one point, they all schlepped over to the library to help Mike dig through and throw away all of his research. Richie crumbled up missing poster after missing poster, and wished they could have stopped Pennywise sooner, saved some more of these kids.

The attic looked brighter when they were done with it. They went back outside, wandered a little bit, revisited a couple of old haunts. The town felt different today—better, brighter. Good. The positive energy was relaxing. 

When they went back to the hotel, they all clustered in the dining room again, just like the night before. (Richie was kind of slowly understanding that nobody actually worked in this hotel. So far, they’d done everything themselves, and never seen a soul. Which was strange, since at first he’d attributed it to Pennywise—he wasn’t sure what to make of it now.)

After a couple more hours of go-nowhere conversation, Bill finally said, “I think I’m gonna head home soon. Maybe day after tomorrow.”

Ben and Bev looked at each other, and Bev nodded at him with a soft smile. So Ben said, “Yeah, us too.”

Mike shrugged and gave a soft little chuckle. “It’ll take me awhile longer than that to get packed and ready to go, but I understand the impulse to get outta here.” He swigged his drink and turned to look at Richie and Eddie, who were sitting sort of on top of each other. “What about you two?”

Eddie turned to look at Richie, who shook his head. “Up to you.” Eddie’s life was far more complicated than Richie’s, with the whole…wife thing. It was his call when they would have to face that whole mess.

“We’ll see,” Eddie said, and left it at that. Like earlier, the other Losers didn’t press. Their situation was less cut and dry than Ben and Bev’s, and everyone knew it. 

Once people started yawning, Eddie knocked his shoulder into Richie’s and jerked his head upstairs. “Wanna go to bed?”

“Uh, yeah sure.” Richie drained the rest of his beer and bid goodnight to the Losers, then followed Eddie up the stairs. Once the door to his—their—room closed, he almost instinctively reached for Eddie’s cheek. “Can we get stitches for this tomorrow?”

Eddie sighed, evading his hands and heading to the bed. “Yeah,” he said distractedly. “That’s probably a good idea.” He sprawled on the bed, his arms flung out. He didn’t seem that tired, just introspective. 

Richie sat next to him. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just us.” Eddie used his elbows to push himself up to sitting, turning to face Richie. It felt like middle school—sitting criss-cross on a bed ad talking in hushed tones because it was late at night.

“What about us?” Richie shoved his glasses back up his nose, nervous. 

“Nothing bad,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes and gently smacking Richie’s knee. “Jesus Christ, I’m supposed to be the anxious one here, you gotta chill out, man.”

“I’m sorry, _dude_ ,” Richie said, emphasizing the last word as hard as he could. “But usually when people say they’re ‘thinking about us’ like one day into a relationship, it’s not a good sign.”

“There’s nothing usual about us.” Eddie picked at a loose string on the blanket.

He had a point. “Did you really love me? When we were kids?” Richie asked before he could stop himself.

Eddie snorted, which was not the response Richie had expected. “Yeah. Pretty sure. I just didn’t let myself…face it, think about it. And then we graduated and we all left and forgot everything, and I _never_ faced it.”

“Never?” Richie asked, incredulous. After Bev left at the end of that summer, the Losers had drifted apart—Ben’s family moved away in their freshman year, and Mike retreated from the group halfway through high school. Those that remained didn’t really question why their old friends never talked to them, because life went on. And the memories of That Summer had gotten super hazy—nobody remembered the clown. But Eddie and Richie and Bill stayed pretty close, although they all got different friends too. And Richie had stayed hopelessly in love with Eddie. 

Then they all left town, and never came back. “Never,” Eddie replied now, shaking his head. “I hated dating anyway, as I’m sure you could guess, with all the germs and shit. Wasn’t much room within my general fear of human contact for me to have a sexual crisis. It kinda fell to the wayside, eternally repressed or whatever.”

“Wow, that’s kinda sad.” Richie could so easily picture a young, tense, stressed out Eddie who refused to even consider his sexuality and was terrified of chlamydia and gonorrhea and AIDS. He wished, with sudden ferocity, that he’d still been in Eddie’s life then. (He wished he’d always been in Eddie’s life, no gaps.)

Eddie shrugged, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

“Did you figure it out when you crashed your car?” Richie asked, nudging Eddie with his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood again.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he said, his voice exaggeratedly low and kind of mocking. “Did you figure it out when you threw up?”

“I never forgot I was gay.” Richie cocked his head. “Did you think I did?”

“I dunno.” Eddie furrowed his brow. “Did you like… _know_ -know?”

“Yeah. I mean, I knew about my feelings for you since, like, we hit middle school. I carved our initials into the bridge That Summer, when we were all separated after you broke your arm.” Richie paused, let his gaze fall on Eddie’s line of suitcases, all in a row like good little soldiers. “Even when I forgot you, I think I still loved you. Which is…weird to think about.”

“What about besides me?” Eddie was strangely intent, and deep creases were showing between his eyebrows. “Was I it for you?”

Richie laughed. “Don’t be so self-centered, dipshit. It wasn’t all about you. I’ve gone out with a few guys over the years. Although, I never felt the same way about them.” He coughed into his fist, suddenly uncomfortable.

Eddie squinted. “I’ve seen your standup, y’know. I didn’t know who you were besides some quasi-famous dude, but I’ve seen you. You’re not out as gay.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not.” Richie shifted uncomfortably. “Like I said. A _few_. Like…a couple dudes in college and a couple others that, ah…ended with NDAs.”

“Jesus.” Eddie leaned back. 

“I don’t—it’s my business.” Richie swallowed. “Who cares if I like guys?”

“You do.” Flat voice. Flat expression. 

“I’ve never been fully comfortable with it, okay?” Richie tugged on an earlobe. “I didn’t want anybody to know. It’s…I feel better now. But it’s complicated.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

Richie cleared his throat and eagerly changed the subject. “You weren’t even my gay awakening, by the way.”

“Oh? Who was?” Eddie crossed his arms, looking only mildly offended.

“Cooper. Fifth grade. You might remember him, but he moved away when we were eleven. I figured it out then, but I didn’t know like…what it was, or what it meant.” Richie swallowed, suddenly awash with memories. It hurt to think about. Because around that same time, somehow, “Richie Tozier is a fag” became a widespread rumor that just so happened to be true. 

In a way, he was glad Eddie hadn’t figured it out earlier, hadn’t been subject to that. He wouldn’t wish it on anybody, least of all this person he loved so much. 

As if he read his mind, Eddie said softly, “I saw what happened to you. I mean, we all did. I know we never talked about it.” He reached over and squeezed Richie’s hand where it was balled into a fist on his knee. “We didn’t want to make you feel worse, so we just didn’t bring it up with you. Not that it was a conscious group choice or anything like that, but… Anyway, none of us cared.”

Richie kept his gaze on the wall, because if he even glanced at Eddie right now, he’d cry. “It’s fine,” he said roughly. “It’s in the past.”

Eddie didn’t say anything for a long moment, mercifully letting Richie recover. Eventually, his throat and eyes cleared, and he felt a little better.

“So.” Eddie leaned in close once it was pretty clear that Richie wasn’t going to have a breakdown. “I’m the only person you’ve ever loved?” He was teasing—they both knew what the answer was. Richie didn’t have the guts to ask him back.

“Shut up,” Richie said, giggling as he shoved Eddie’s head away. Eddie reached up, almost like a reflex, and wrapped his hand around Richie’s wrist, keeping Richie’s hand in place on the side of his head. They stayed like that for a moment, held in place by each other’s grasp. 

Richie leaned in and so did Eddie, and suddenly they were kissing again. Eddie’s other hand curled around the back of Richie’s head, into his hair. 

After a dizzying, heated moment, Richie started moving, kissing up the right side of Eddie’s jawline to his ear. He felt Eddie’s shaky exhale on his face as he reveled in the rasp of his own stubble over Eddie’s smooth skin. “Rich,” Eddie murmured, but didn’t say anything else.

“Mm?” Richie moved back to Eddie’s mouth, breaking away only to breathe.

“Nothing,” Eddie said quickly. Richie pulled him closer until their legs were tangled and Eddie was partially in his lap, making the angle between their mouths a little less steep. 

Richie stuck his hands under the hem of Eddie’s shirt, making him shiver. He didn’t do much with the new territory, just ran his hands slowly over Eddie’s skin as they continued to kiss. He was warm to the touch, and he felt so alive under Richie’s fingers.

On a whim, he traced his hands down over Eddie’s stomach and toyed with the button on his jeans, not undoing it exactly but fiddling with it. Immediately, Eddie tipped his head back. “Wait.”

Richie let go of him completely and leaned away, back onto his palms. His lips felt like they were buzzing, and it took him a second to get his eyes to focus on Eddie, who was still perched in his lap. “You okay?” he asked, as casually as he could.

Eddie rolled his eyes and grabbed Richie’s shoulders. “Not like that, dumbass. I’m just…still worn out.”

“Me too, honestly.” Richie rubbed his forehead. “Damn, when did we get old?” he asked ruefully. Ten years ago, he’d be panting up Eddie’s shirt right now. Instead, he just wanted to fall asleep next to him. 

“Speak for yourself.” Eddie leaned in to kiss Richie again, less desperately this time. “Raincheck. Promise.”

“Mhm.” Richie hummed when they separated. “Bedtime?”

Eddie climbed off of him, stretching his arms out as he went. “I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered as he went.

They went through the motions of getting ready for bed, and it all felt so painfully domestic. Standing together in the bathroom. Getting into bed on their set sides. Cuddling up. At least, until Eddie said, “If you wake me up with another nightmare, I’m gonna be so fucking pissed off at you.”

Richie pressed a kiss against his hairline. “No promises.”

But this time, when he fell asleep tangled up with Eddie, he didn’t dream at all.

* * *

The next day, the Losers split quickly after breakfast to make individual preparations for leaving. Eager to avoid those activities, due to not having decided when they were leaving, Richie and Eddie elected to go deal with another problem—the hole in Eddie’s face.

Richie drove them thirty-five minutes to the closest urgent care, because of course backwoods Maine didn’t have shit close by. God forbid. 

He rather enjoyed the concerned looks they got when they checked in and told the staff what Eddie needed, as well as the increasingly worried questions. Eddie and Richie both refused to give a straight answer, because their lives were way too complicated for that. And also, Richie had killed the man who’d stabbed Eddie, and he didn’t much feel like going to prison.

In the end, the nurses decided to use butterfly bandages on the gash instead of stitches, which was a relief for everybody involved. Eddie seemed much reassured by the amount obvious antiseptic work going on, and nobody liked needles, so it was a good compromise.

Richie held his hand anyway. It was…nice. Despite the circumstances of the wound, it felt normal. Richie realized, as they were walking back to the car when it was all done, that it was because this was the first time they’d been around someone other than the Losers while they’d been “together” (or whatever this was). It made it feel even more real, more solid.

On the way back, Richie tuned the radio to some country station, to give them something to listen to under the uncomfortable conversation he was about to start. “Have you ever dated anybody other than Myra?” he asked.

Eddie very visibly became tense in the passenger seat. “Uh. Didn’t we talk about this last night?”

“Not really. You said you didn’t like dating, that’s all. I’m just curious.” Richie didn’t look over outside of his peripheral vision, didn’t want to make Eddie uncomfortable.

There was a very long pause. Then Eddie said, “I didn’t date. Or anything. I didn’t have the time or the…inclination. And then Myra came along, and she was just sorta like, ‘hey we should date’ and I didn’t say no, so then we were dating, and then—” He shrugged, his palms up. “I couldn’t really stop it.”

“Did you want to?” Richie asked softly.

“Yes,” Eddie said, not even taking a second to think. “Myra’s always been… She’s a lot like my mother.”

“Oh,” Richie said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t wanna get into that right now.” Eddie fell quiet again, leaning against the window.

Richie let the silence build, reluctant to put Eddie on the spot again with something else. Josh Turner’s “Your Man” played from the radio, which was rather unfortunate because Richie actually liked that song. He would’ve liked to sing it exaggeratedly in Eddie’s direction, trying to pitch his voice all sexy-low. It would’ve been funny and cute. But he’d ruined the mood.

Slowly, Eddie relaxed. Then, unprompted, he brought up something they’d both been avoiding. “Have you thought about leaving tomorrow?”

“Rejoining the real world?” Richie reached out and turned the volume down just a little. “I have, yeah. What do you think?”

Eddie sighed explosively. “I dunno. There’s not much point in staying if everybody else is going, but also…”

“i know.” Richie bit his lip. “But you were planning to leave with me anyway, and it’s not like we have to deal with the whole Myra thing right away.” It still gave him a thrill to think about Eddie being so keen to leave with him.

Eddie hummed. “‘We,’ huh?”

“Yeah, ‘we.’ That’s an us problem, not a you problem. I got your back.”

Eddie nodded in Richie’s peripheral vision. “Then…I think tomorrow it is. Tomorrow is good.”

“Sounds good. Let’s do it.” Richie looked over to smile at Eddie, who looked pale but determined. His freshly glued wound looked shiny. 

“You’re not driving the whole way,” Eddie said, like he’d given it a lot of thought. “You’re not that good a driver.”

“You know what they say, gays can’t drive.” Richie purposely began to weave on the deserted road, swinging the wheel back and forth in little jerks.

“Cut that out, asshole! Stop it!”

Richie cackled but stopped, leaning away and giggling as Eddie gently smacked him from the passenger seat. 

* * *

The six Losers stood in front of the hotel in a loose circle.

All of their cars were packed up. It was 8 a.m.—time to hit the road. Everyone was leaving except Mike, who said that he needed another two weeks before he’d be ready to leave Derry for good. Everyone was eager to go back to the real world and see what the rest of their fear-free lives held, but as Richie looked around at all of his friends, he felt like absolute shit.

Bill was the first one who managed to speak. “Everyone’s got each other’s numbers?”

A murmur of assent went up. Eddie scuffed his foot on the ground, looking down. Bev and Ben were holding each other’s hands so tightly that Richie could see their white knuckles from ten paces.

“This isn’t a real goodbye,” Mike said, his voice calm and gentle. He smiled, successfully reassuring, squinting against the morning light. “We’re going to remember each other, and we’re going to see each other again. Okay?”

That broke the spell. The circle collapsed into a flurry of hugs and a clamoring of well-wishes. Richie hugged Ben and Mike at the same time, one with each arm, followed by Bill, who was even smaller than Eddie and embraced him tightly enough to make his ribs feel tight. 

Richie saved Beverly for last, and scooped her up off the ground to hug her, laughing when she shrieked in his ear. “I’m gonna miss you, dumbass,” she said when he put her down, her eyes shining as she looked up at him.

“Yeah, well, you know where to find me if you and Benny Boy want a change of pace,” Richie said, ruffling her hair. “Eds and I’d love to have you guys come visit.”

Her smile turned even softer, and she grasped his arm, earnest. “I’m really happy for you two,” she said. “You guys deserve this.”

“You too,” Richie said, barely getting it out around the lump in his throat.

Before they could all change their minds, they piled into their respective cars. Ben and Bev were obviously going together, and poor Bill was driving all by himself. Eddie was coming with Richie, but they were in Eddie’s massive Escalade—the trunk of the car was stuffed to bursting with his suitcases. They’d arranged for a service to collect Richie’s car and drive it down to New York, because neither of them wanted to be separated even for the drive.

Mike grinned and waved at them all from the sidewalk as they started driving. He looked light and carefree, standing tall as if all the weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Richie honked loudly as he drove by, and Eddie waved furiously from the passenger seat.

They all drove on the same road to the highway, and even once they got on it, they stayed in view of each other. Maine had exactly one north-south highway, and they all needed to go in generally the same direction. It made the goodbye feel premature, or something, which made Richie’s stomach flip-flop.

Eddie was taking his mind off similar miseries by complaining, apparently. “I thought we said you weren’t going to drive,” he said. “We agreed, you agreed with me, because I trust you _I guess_ but you’re not like the best driver in the world and I don’t trust you to get us all the way to New York safely and I’d really feel more comfortable if I was doing it—”

“You crashed a car because you remembered you were gay,” Richie said, deadpan.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Eddie said, pointing at him over the console. 

“Also,” Richie said quickly before Eddie could get going again, “first of all, i’m a fine driver and I’m not gonna crash. And second of all, if you think I’m driving all the way to New York, you’re fuckin’ crazy. We’ll switch a few times. You can drive once we get through Massachusetts.”

Eddie made a grumbling noise. “Fine. That works.”

They lost sight of Bill before they even left Maine as he fell behind Richie’s cruising speed. Then they lost Ben and Bev at the New Hampshire border when the two of them pulled off the highway, apparently for a rest stop.

Richie and Eddie didn’t discuss it, just pressed on. The plan was to go to Richie’s apartment in the city and spend a few days there just recuperating and getting used to being back in the real world. Then, they’d work on putting their lives back together—Richie sorting out his career with his agent, and Eddie dealing with Myra and going back to work. They’d agreed to it the night before as they packed for their departure.

But now, Eddie seemed breathlessly tense. He kept fidgeting, apparently never comfortable. He had developed a charming habit of diving for the air controls and changing the temperature by only one degree. Richie couldn’t tell if it was because they’d said goodbye to their friends, or he was having second thoughts, or what.

“Are you okay?” he asked finally, after Eddie moved his seat-back up and then down again (by a quarter of an inch) for the third time in as many minutes. “You seem uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” Eddie said tersely.

Richie hesitated. “Are you sure? Is this about the plan? I’ve got a place in LA, if you want to start there instead—”

“I don’t even know if I want to go back at all.” Eddie said it all in a rush, on one breath. When Richie glanced over at him, he was very minutely shaking one hand like he was holding an inhaler.

“Why?” Richie asked calmly. _Don’t freak out. Don’t spook him_. “Is…is this about Myra?” He thought about what he’d said yesterday: _I don’t want to get into that_. Was he ready now?

Apparently so. Eddie took an audibly deep breath and then said, “Yes. It’s about Myra.”

“You said she’s like your mom.” It was a question, but it didn’t sound like one.

“Yeah.” In Richie’s peripheral vision, Eddie pulled one of his knees up to his chest like a little kid. “You remember what you said in the sewers? About me being brave?”

“Yes,” Richie said softly.

“Myra makes me feel weak and small and fragile. Sick. Frail.” Eddie pulled his other knee up so he was hugging both of his legs. “Just like my mom did.”

“She tells you that you’re sick when you’re not? And the whole like…placebo thing?” Richie was having a tough time concentrating on the road.

“Yeah. And I didn’t really…connect the dots. My mom stayed pretty close to Derry, and I visited her a bunch, but I could never connect the behaviors until Mike called.”

“That was a very powerful phone call,” Richie muttered. “So you didn’t remember how your mom treated you, so you didn’t think about how _Myra’s_ been treating you?”

“Kinda.” Eddie fiddled with one of the cuffs of his jeans, rolling and unrolling it. “It’s more than just the sickness, Rich. I know I’m not sick. She tells me to do a lot of things, sometimes makes me do them. I don’t have much of a say. It’s like I’m her puppet, or her toy, or something.”

Richie almost, _almost_ tried to lighten the mood by making a joke about straight-people marriages, but thought the better of it at the last second. “She controls you,” he said instead. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice was barely audible. 

“Eddie, that’s bad,” Richie said. “That’s really, really not good. That’s fucked up.”

“I know,” Eddie groaned, burying his face into his knees. “She’s really awful. I don’t like the way I am when I’m stuck with her.”

“Your word choice is very telling,” Richie said, tilting his head to the side. “But, like… You’re not weak, or frail, or anything else. You’re strong. And brave. And _healthy_.” Eddie chuckled quietly at that one. “I’m serious! You can be a germaphobe and still be healthy.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Eddie said to his knees.

“And, more to the point—not that it’s a competition, although I guess it kinda is, but I’m not gonna try to make you do _shit_. I’m way smarter than that.”

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie said, his voice small and miserable. He lifted his head back up and leaned it against the headrest. 

Richie let the quiet sit for a moment. Then: “We really can go out to my place in LA if you want.” He switched lanes to pass a Subaru with a billion bumper stickers, just to give himself something to do on the straight highway. “Whatever you need.”

“No,” Eddie said, a little stronger now. “New York is a good idea.” He nodded, his jaw set and determined. 

“Okay, Eds.” Richie smiled and reached for his hand. “I got you.”

They drove more or less in quiet after that until they reached the Massachusetts border. Then Eddie took over the driving, insisting that Richie needed to rest. They didn’t switch again until they were almost back in the city, when Richie made the executive decision to take over because the last time Eddie had driven in New York, he’d crashed.

They made it to his apartment by early evening, just as the sun was beginning to look a little weaker in the sky. It was a pretty nice building, with a doorman who helped carry Eddie’s suitcases up.

Both of them were quiet as they settled in. Eddie made some snarky comments about it being nicer than he expected, and they both had a moment where they remembered their real lives—Richie’s comedy, which was incredible and what he loved but hadn’t always paid handsomely, and Eddie’s Wall Street job that got him an Escalade and whatever incredibly nice place he shared with Myra. It made them both uncomfortable to consider the latter, so they ignored it. 

Richie felt weird being here, and it wasn’t just because Eddie was with him and that was something new and different. It was also that he wasn’t used to being here. He spent most of his time in hotels these days, across the country. He’d feel more at home in a Marriott in LA than he did here.

Richie had no food in his fridge, so they ordered takeout and laid on his couch watching shitty reality TV and refusing to acknowledge the shift that was taking place in their lives. What mattered, Richie decided as he lazily made out with Eddie on his couch, was that they were together.

They had sex for the first time that night, and Richie’s only coherent thought as he panted alongside Eddie and made him feel good was: _Fuck, I can’t believe this, how’d I get so lucky?_

After, Richie kissed Eddie’s jaw and said, “So?” with a shit-eating grin. 

Eddie, who knew him too well at that point and knew exactly what he was asking, playfully shoved his shoulder. “Yeah, of course it was better than Myra. Shut the fuck up.”

“Best you ever had, right?”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.”

They spent a couple days like that, relaxing and trying to play it cool. It was nice to both be away from Derry and still hide from the realities of the real world. They just…cuddled and fucked a couple more times and watched TV (and ignored phone calls from Richie’s agent and Eddie’s bosses and a number that Richie was pretty sure was Myra). They bickered over stupid shit like who was squishing who and where they should get food. It felt good.

Finally, on the morning of the third day, Eddie looked up from breakfast and said, “It’s time to deal with this.”

Richie turned from the stove. “Okay. Define ‘this.’” He wasn’t scared like he was that time in the hotel—for some reason, he felt pretty secure in their relationship, whatever their relationship even was. Who would’ve thought?

“Myra, mostly.” Eddie was very carefully and systematically breaking his bacon into increasingly tiny pieces. He was also not making eye contact. “I mean, also our careers, especially yours, but mostly Myra.”

“Okay,” Richie said again. He turned off the burner he was working with and moved the pan with his egg off of it. Eddie already had his food—Richie could wait. “Where do you want to start?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie said lowly. “But there’s still some stuff of mine there, I’ll need that.”

“You didn’t manage to get all of it into your luggage?”

Eddie looked up and fixed Richie with an annoyed glare.

“I’m _serious._ You brought an ungodly amount of shit.”

“I am also being serious,” Eddie said, enunciating very clearly. “I need to get my stuff.”

Richie sighed and abandoned his half-cooked food, circling the counter and sitting next to Eddie. “How do you want to do that? Do you want to call first or just like…show up?” He stole a fragment of bacon. “Also, not to put you on the spot, but uh, what exactly is your plan visa vie Myra herself?”

Eddie sucked in a deep breath. “I’m gonna divorce her.”

Richie couldn’t lie to himself—his heart leapt in his chest. He nodded and smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Of course you do,” Eddie snorted. 

“She’s _bad_ for you,” Richie said insistently. “I’m happy that you want to do this because I think it’ll be good for you.” He paused. “And also yes, because I love you and want to be with you. Whatever. Asshole.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.” Eddie was smiling, though. “I want to go get my shit today. And see her and tell her in person.”

“Sounds like a blast.” Richie stood up to get his food, satisfied that Eddie was doing better. 

Eddie reached up and snagged Richie’s arm, pulling him down into a quick kiss. “Thank you,” he said when they separated. “For…all this.”

Richie leaned down again to peck his forehead. “You betcha, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Okay, moment over.” Eddie released Richie’s arm, rolling his eyes. “God, you’re a menace.”

“You love me, though.” Richie winked over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Eddie rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “God help me.”

* * *

The visit started really well. Richie thought they did a great job of buzzing themselves into the building and silently riding the elevator up multiple floors. (Side note: Eddie lived in an exceedingly nice building. Richie had to suppress a sudden wave of self-consciousness over his place.)

Then they reached Eddie’s door, and at first, it was okay. Eddie opened it with his key, and all was quiet inside. He beckoned Richie in, and they looked around, staying silent as they entered. _Shit, this place is so nice. What the fuck_.

“Most of the stuff is Myra’s,” Eddie whispered. Their footsteps echoed dimly on the floor. “I really just gotta get back to the bedroom—”

“EDDIE?”

The first, very confusing thought that Richie had when the woman came bursting into the room was _Jesus Christ, his mom’s back from the dead_. 

This was much, much worse. 

Myra was large, and her face was ruddy like she’d just been either crying or screaming or both. “Where have you _been_ , Eddie?” she asked, crowding into his space and tugging on his arms. She zeroed in on the wound in Eddie’s face (which was actually healing over nicely) and her eyes went wide. “What _happened_ to you? Oh my God, you probably have an infection! We have to go to the hospital right away and get you antibiotics—”

Rather more gently than Richie would have been, Eddie extricated himself from her grip and took two huge steps back until he was almost against Richie’s chest. “Hello, Myra,” he said flatly. “I’m fine.”

Myra finally took in Richie, who was standing mute. He was at war with his instincts right now. Part of him wanted to stand between Eddie and Myra. Another part of him wanted to flee, either with Eddie or even just on his own, because this was the absolute most uncomfortable he’d ever felt. He was also contemplating starting a physical fight, or maybe a fire. Lots of options.

But he didn’t do any of that. This was Eddie’s battle. And he was going to stand here like a statue unless Eddie needed him to do something, or until it was time to go.

Myra was not privy to this thought process, and she raked her gaze over Richie with a sneer. “Who is this?” she demanded. “What is going _on_?”

Eddie suddenly burst into motion, striding past Myra. Richie couldn’t see his face, but he could guess the conclusion Eddie had come to—get his stuff quick and get out. Myra watched, mouth agape, as Eddie walked past her further into the apartment. 

The two of them stood silently together in the living room, listening to Eddie bang around in the recesses of the place, packing his stuff. Richie looked resolutely at the floor, but he could feel Myra’s eyes burning into his skull. He didn’t say a word, and miraculously, neither did she.

Eddie came back with a single duffel bag over his shoulder. He stopped between Richie and Myra, his body angled toward the door.

She spoke first. “Where are you going?” she asked hesitantly. Her voice was no longer brassy and grating, but rather pleading and a little whiny. “Are you…leaving?”

Eddie took a deep breath, his mouth a straight line. “You shouldn’t be surprised by this,” he said. “It was a long time coming. But yes, I’m leaving.”

Myra’s lower lip quivered, her eyes over-full. “You…you can’t,” she said. “You can’t leave me. You _love_ me.”

Eddie’s shoulders went taut. “I don’t love—I _never_ loved you.” He swallowed, glanced at Richie. “I never loved you,” he said again.

She looked between him and Richie, clearly at a loss. “I don’t understand.”

_“Divorce!”_ Eddie cried out, throwing his free arm up. He didn’t quite shout it, but it was a close thing. “I don’t love you, and I’m divorcing you. I’m really sorry, but I’m done, and I’m leaving.” He turned around and walked to the door, grabbing Richie’s wrist as he went and tugging him along. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Goodbye, Myra.”

And then the door closed behind them. The last thing Richie saw was an expression of naked shock on Myra’s face. (It was telling to Richie, then, the lack of true sadness: she wasn’t upset or even truly angry, it seemed. Just surprised. Like she’d never thought Eddie would have been able to extricate himself.)

Eddie led Richie to the elevator and out of the building, still with an iron-clad grip on Richie’s wrist and absolutely no eye contact. When they got to the car, he threw his bag in the back and flung himself into the passenger seat. As if in a trance, Richie got in behind the wheel and turned to look at Eddie.

He was staring resolutely forward, his eyes rather wide. He looked…fine. A little stunned, and he was definitely shaking a bit, but overall he looked all right.

“How we doing?” Richie asked, his voice a little creaky. 

Eddie didn’t move except to nod very slowly, like a bobblehead put on a slow-motion setting. “Okay,” he said, his voice very small. He cleared his throat and looked around, taking in the bag he’d gotten. He nodded a little more firmly, as if satisfied with their success. “I’m okay,” he said again, his voice stronger.

“Okay.” Richie didn’t turn the car on yet, instead turning to face Eddie a bit more. “So, what’s next? I mean—”

He was interrupted by Eddie’s mouth. It was an awkward angle, because of the shape of the car and the console between them, but Eddie clasped the back of Richie’s head and pulled him in until it didn’t feel awkward anymore. Richie let himself relax into it, coming down under Eddie’s touch from the adrenaline rush of the past few minutes, and he could feel Eddie doing the same.

Finally, Eddie leaned back, his face pink. “Thank you,” he said, before Richie could say anything.

“For what?” Richie blinked, feeling two steps behind Eddie’s thought process. He was still stuck on the kiss, if he was honest.

“For letting me take the lead in there.” Eddie fidgeted, twisting so he was facing forward again and putting on his seatbelt. “I’m not used to people treat me like I’m so capable. It’s nice to have my boyfriend trust me.”

As sweet (and sad) a sentiment as that was, Richie froze in place as he went to start the car for a different reason. “Boyfriend?” He couldn’t stop himself.

Eddie stilled, but when Richie looked over, he was smiling. “Yeah, you fucking idiot. Boyfriend. Jesus, what the fuck did you think we were doing here?”

“Hey, fuckhead, how was I supposed to know if you didn’t communicate with me?” Richie dug the key into the ignition and started the car before peeling out of the space. He absent-mindedly flipped the building off as they drove by it. “You have to _tell_ me these things, I was just trying to take it slow and follow your lead.” He was full-on grinning now.

“Well, yeah, you’re my _boyfriend_. We’re dating.” Eddie watched the building recede, then turned and shook his head at Richie, still smiling. “God, you’re a dumbass.”

“Your dumbass,” Richie said, pointing at him.

“Ew. That’s so gross.” Eddie made a face. “But yeah, I guess. _I guess_.”

“Also, of course I let you take the lead in there,” Richie said, circling back to the much more important point that Eddie had been trying to make. “I’ve never been more terrified in my life and I wasn’t about to get in the middle of all _that_.”

Eddie cocked his head. “Were you scared of Myra or of me?”

“Technically both, but I’ve never been more scared of you,” Richie said truthfully. “And that includes our entire childhood and our whole recent clown-killing adventure.”

When Richie glanced over, Eddie looked oddly touched. “Wow, Rich, that means a lot.”

A beat. “So.” Richie raised his eyebrows as they stopped at a light, and leaned toward Eddie. “Boyfriend.”

“God, _shut the fuck up_ ,” Eddie said, laughing as he pushed Richie’s face out of his space.

* * *

When they got back to Richie’s apartment, Eddie promptly disappeared to take a nap. Richie putzed around the house for a bit, feeling a little lost. He wasn’t sure what to do, and he _really_ wasn’t sure what to make of Myra. It just made him angry, and that wasn’t a valuable response.

So he settled for laying face-up on the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the future.

That’s where Eddie found him two hours later, and he sat on the floor next to him and leaned his head back against the side of Richie’s chest. “What’re you up to?” he asked, all casual-like.

“Thinking.” Richie didn’t look at him.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Eddie pulled out his phone and started scrolling through his contacts—it took Richie a few seconds of watching him to realize that he was looking for a lawyer.

“How many lawyers do you know?” Richie asked. Eddie had stopped at at least three so far to contemplate them. 

“A ton,” Eddie said absent-mindedly. “Just trying to think of who’d get me the most in this whole clusterfuck of a scenario.”

Once again, Richie was struck by how different their worlds were. He stayed quiet.

Eddie seemed to land on one (a guy named Harry), but to Richie’s surprise, he didn’t call him. Instead, he put the phone down. “What were you thinking about?” he asked, tilting his head back so he could look at Richie.

“Stuff. Things.” Richie bit his lip. “The future, I guess.”

“What about it?”

“Going back to LA, maybe. I’m just…not sure. I’m planning to call my agent tomorrow, get things squared away. It’s not like there’s a lot to think about, it’s gonna be back to business as usual.” Richie shrugged, trying not to appear bored. Or anxious.

Eddie wasn’t fooled. “Do you _want_ to go back to business as usual? Are you okay with just…going back to your career as it was? Or do you want to make some changes?”

Richie didn’t reply for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said softly.

“If you’re hesitating and you’re nervous and you’re thinking this hard about ‘business as usual,’ I think you do know.” Eddie stood up, pulling out his phone again. “You can do whatever you want, Rich. It’s up to you. I can work from anywhere, and I’ll stick with you whatever you decide. Plus, I got you financially no matter what.” He dialed and put his phone to his ear. “Pizza tonight, right? Just pepperoni?”

Richie stared up at him and nodded mutely. Eddie just smiled and ruffled his hair as he stepped away to order them dinner. And Richie stayed on the couch, mulling it all over, and wondering how he’d struck such a goldmine with a guy as wise and kind (and rich) as Eddie.

* * *

A couple of weeks passed, and a lot happened.

(The further removed they got from killing the clown, the less it seemed to have a hold on them. Richie was sleeping much better now.)

Eddie called his lawyer pal Harry and together they drew up a fairly reasonable document for his divorce. It helped that Harry (and Richie) suggested a restraining order, and once Eddie threatened Myra with that, she apparently became more complacent. 

Richie wasn’t actually present for any of this. Being around people in suits made him nervous, and Eddie seemed to have it pretty much handled.

Richie called his agent. The rest of the tour had already been canceled, which was kind of a given. With that, Richie took it a step further: “I want to write my own material,” he said. “I want to sort of…start from scratch.”

His agent took it surprisingly well, and he was damn good at his job, because within about a week he had a preliminary deal sketched out with fucking _Netflix_ for a stand-up special of the new tour he’d go on once he wrote his new (first?) set. 

First he had to actually write it, and they managed to give him a little while before he had to start traveling. Which was more than he’d hoped for.

Eddie started working again at his firm, and despite what he’d said in Derry, Richie could see how much Eddie actually _liked_ his job. And he was damn good at it. Also he was very grateful to how much money his boyfriend was making, because currently Richie’s job consisted of sitting at home and staring at an angry blinking cursor. 

One night, almost three weeks after Derry, Eddie came home to find Richie hunched over his laptop, whose screen showed only a blank white page. 

“I actually bought food for dinner,” Eddie said, dumping a couple of paper bags on the counter. “You good over there?”

“Fine.” Richie slammed his laptop closed and got up, crossing to the kitchen to put away the groceries. “What’d you get? I’ll start cooking.”

Eddie tilted his head at him and slowly loosened his tie. (The fact that Eddie wore suits to work every day…Richie wanted to jump him every time he walked in the door.) “Not going so well, huh?”

“You could say that.” Richie spread the ingredients out and got to work. He wasn’t a great cook, but of the two of them, he was the best. And both of them had gotten sick of takeout after a few days, so they had to do something. It also made him feel like he was contributing in some way, considering his lack of actual work at the moment. “How was work?”

“Fine. Normal.” Eddie sat down, shrugging his jacket off and popping the top two buttons of his shirt. “Tell me about your day.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Absolutely nothing exciting. Tell me about yours.”

Eddie sighed and complied, and his tales of corporate bureaucracy and five meetings that could’ve been emails and him being smarter than everybody he worked with lasted them until Richie sat down with a fully cooked meal.

“Now,” Eddie said, pointing a fork at Richie, “you can’t dodge it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Richie bit his lip. “I can’t write my own shit,” he said. He pushed his food around. “I’m not funny.”

Eddie rolled his eyes so hard that Richie thought they’d fall out of his skull. “Rich, I know I’ve told you many times that you’re not funny, but you should be aware that you’re the funniest man alive.” He shook his head. “I’m never saying that again, so you better appreciate it.”

Richie snorted. “You’re just saying that because you love me, and love makes you dumb.”

“ _That’s_ dumb.” Eddie put his utensils down and clasped his hands together. “Just…stop overthinking it. You’re funniest when you’re just making shit up off the cuff and being an asshole. Think of a joke that’s just for us.”

Richie thought for a long few minutes, inhaling his dinner as he did so. Eddie was content to let him think, and focused on his own plate. Finally, Richie said, “So since we’re dating now—and we’ve known each other for like twenty-seven years—can I make fun of you? On-stage?”

Putting his fork down again, Eddie frowned as he thought. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, you can make fun of me. Just—don’t say that I’m a bitch and you don’t like me, or anything like that.”

Richie burst out laughing. “That’s _it_? The bar is so low! Like…that’s it?”

Eddie started giggling.

“I wouldn’t say that anyway! What kind of show would that even be?” Richie reflexively lifted his fork up like a microphone. “‘Hello, my boyfriend is a bitch! And I don’t like him!’” he said, in an exaggerated whiny voice. “That’s like a support group for men in crisis, with keynote speakers John Voight and Alec Baldwin.”

Eddie was properly laughing now, leaning his forehead on his hand with his elbow on the table.

“Also, Eds, I would never say, even as a joke, that you’re a bitch and I don’t like you. It’s not true. You’re a bitch and I like you _so much_.”

Eddie ugly-snorted at that and looked up at Richie. “See? You’re funny.” Eddie pointed at the microphone-poised fork. “You’re a natural.”

Richie, still grinning and flushed from spitballing the joke, lowered his arm. In that moment, everything crystallized—Eddie looking at him full of mirth and love, the domesticity of the whole scene, the comfort he felt. _Everything is…good_. 

It was this feeling in the room, between them, just for a few seconds, that despite everything they’d been through, they’d get back to normal and everything would be all right.

Richie pushed back from the table and leaned across to kiss Eddie’s temple. “I gotta write that down, that’s good shit.”

Eddie waved him toward the computer. “Yeah, yeah, get it down while it’s hot off the press.”

“What? That’s nonsense.” Richie collapsed on the couch, already opening his laptop. “Are you gonna do the dishes?”

“Forget it, I’m never saying you’re funny again,” Eddie said. He stood up with their plates anyway, as Richie began to furiously type. 

“I’ll remind you of that when we’re at my show.” Richie didn’t look up, but he could see Eddie flipping him off out of the corner of his eye. _Yeah. Domestic life_.

* * *

Stan’s letter came a few days later.

It had gotten hung up after he died, or something. Maybe his wife had been too grief-stricken to send them right away. But whatever the case, when Richie picked it up in the mail, he sat heavily on one of the stools at the counter and read it with his head in his hands. 

As soon as he was done, he texted Eddie to come home and then called Mike.

It rang twice, and then Mike was there. “Rich? What’s wrong?”

“Hey man, did you, uh. Did you get this letter too?” Richie rubbed the corners of his eyes, trying very hard not to burst into tears.

“Oh. Yeah, it came a couple days ago. Bill got it too.” Mike’s voice was soft. “You okay?”

“Not really.” Richie looked down at the paper again. It was blurry now. He pushed it away so he wouldn’t ruin it by crying on it. It hurt, very suddenly, to think about and remember Stan.

“Bill didn’t do so hot either.” Mike sighed. “Ben and Bev haven’t gotten theirs yet, but I’ve been in touch with them. They’re settling in okay.”

“That’s good.” Richie chatted with Mike a little more before they hung up. He was still reeling. Stan had been his best fucking friend, even more than Eddie. Richie suddenly, desperately wished that he could’ve seen Stan as an adult, just once. Could’ve hugged him, ruffled his hair, made fun of his fussy clothes, anything. 

Eddie came home soon after that, a look of concern on his face. Richie silently pushed the letter toward him and watched him read it, watched his face fall. “God, Stan,” he murmured, running his thumb over the signature.

“He didn’t deserve this,” Richie said quietly. 

“None of us did,” Eddie agreed. He came over and pulled Richie against his chest, cradling his head. “It’s okay, though.”

“Is it?” Richie swallowed. He was _not_ going to cry. He wasn’t.

Eddie hesitated. “No. But it will be.”

* * *

After that, the Losers kept in better touch. Richie started a group chat with all their numbers called “Loser Thots” with two clown emojis. Miraculously, nobody changed it.

Time kept passing. Richie finished writing his special. Eddie’s divorce was finalized two months after Stan’s letter came, and the two of them went out to dinner to celebrate. (He got a lot of the money, and Myra ended up with the apartment and the possessions Eddie had abandoned. It was a good deal.) Richie went to little comedy clubs to test out his new material, which went better than he could’ve ever anticipated.

He booked voice-acting work every once in awhile, which was nice. He started filtering back into his normal working life, showing up periodically on some late-night shows. He was scheduled to host SNL for the second time since he’d left the cast. 

Eddie’s job was going well too, and he was thriving in corporate life. Richie felt like he should have anticipated that, but somehow, imagining Eddie in the business world had never occurred to him.

They were healing, too. A little bit at a time. Forgotten trauma was still trauma, and the shit that they’d been through recently was so intense that Richie often had trouble believing it was real. 

But both of them slowly became less jumpy, less scared. Eddie stopped sanitizing his hands all the time and looking over his shoulder for attackers. (The stab wound in his cheek was just a long, shiny scar now. Sometimes you couldn’t even see it in the right light.) And also, Eddie began to recover from things that weren’t Derry-related—he stopped shying away from Richie when Richie was in a mood that wasn’t light and happy. He wouldn’t clam up during serious discussions. But also, Richie realized one night (with a warm feeling in his chest), Eddie had never seemed to think that Richie would treat him the way Myra did. Eddie always seemed to trust in Richie’s love for him. 

For Richie’s part, he became more and more comfortable with himself, with the gay thing. He was even building up to being out—fully, to the world—once he and Eddie got married. And he could go more and more time without seeing Eddie and wouldn’t fall into thinking that he was dead. (But he still couldn’t sleep on his back. Then he’d always see Eddie bleeding out on top of him. He doubted he’d ever shake that one.)

Then, before they knew it, _months_ had passed. Life was good with them at home, and with Bev and everybody else in his pocket, Richie felt better than ever. (His anxiety about hosting SNL again proved unfounded, and it was hard to stress when he had Bev on the phone telling him that no matter what, she and Ben would lose their shit at whatever he did.)

Richie’s tour started. (The show was called _Trashmouth_. Eddie had suggested the name.) Richie had never been more stressed out. They were starting in Boston, which he thought was unfair—Boston had never been nice to him. But Eddie was backstage with him for a little bit, and helped him straighten his jacket. “You’re gonna be fine. It’s gonna go great,” Eddie said. “And if it doesn’t, then that’s only because you’re the least funny man alive and I never loved you.”

_Very helpful_. “Oh, yes. All of that is true and also I never fucked your mom,” Richie said. 

Eddie looked up sharply. “What?”

“I thought we were saying things that are blatantly untrue?”

Eddie gently smacked Richie’s chest. “Jesus Christ. You’re fine. Break a leg.”

This was the only show Eddie’d be able to make it to until Richie made a full circle back to New York. They’d visit in hotels and stuff, but Eddie’s work was heating up recently, and anyway, Richie didn’t want him there _every_ night. Just tonight. Because he was gonna jump out of his skin.

But he got out onstage and, in his not so humble opinion, he killed it. This was boosted by the fact that after five minutes, he spotted Eddie in the front row, literally doubled over laughing. Richie grinned for the rest of his set. 

As soon as he walked off stage, Eddie came running, and Richie laughed and swept him up in a hug. “You did great, asshole! You don’t get to be anxious _ever_ again!” Eddie said in his ear.

“No promises!”

They piled into a car that brought them back to the hotel, because Richie found himself exhausted and just wanted to relax and get the adrenaline out of his system. But there was something he had to do first that was making him ten times more anxious than the show had. 

Beverly texted him, and it arrived with a _ding_. _How’d the show go? Did you do it yet?_

_It was great. No, I didn’t do it yet._

_Do it!!!_

_I will, okay? Chill_. Richie involuntarily patted his pocket, brushing up against the ring box.

Eddie, oblivious, was holding tightly to the handle on the ceiling and complaining loudly about Boston traffic. Richie watched him, and immediately relaxed a little bit. This was the man he loved, after all.

When they got to the hotel, Richie peeled away to shower (how he got so damn sweaty when all he did was stand there with a microphone, he’d never know) while Eddie ordered room service. After he turned the water off, Richie looked at the ring box that he’d taken out of his pocket and put on the counter by the sink. He picked it up and looked at himself in the mirror. And even though he was nervous, he just smiled.

Dressed again, this time in more comfortable clothes, Richie held the ring box in a tightly closed fist and popped out of the bathroom, steam curling around him. 

“Finally.” Eddie was sitting on the bed, a tray spread out next to him. He wasn’t facing Richie, but was picking through whatever he’d ordered. “Your food’s getting cold.”

“It’s about to get colder,” Richie quipped. “Eds, I have a question for you.” He got on a knee, and immediately felt like an idiot.

“What are you talkin’ about? What—” Eddie turned around and caught sight of Richie on the floor. “What the fuck are you doing,” he said, but his voice was soft and his eyes were wide.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Richie opened the box and held it out towards Eddie with a shaky smile. “What does it look like?”

“If this is some sort of extended joke from your set I’m gonna kill you, that’s not—”

“The fuck, that wouldn’t even be funny,” Richie protested.

“Yeah, just like you’re not even funny.”

“I think we both know you’re lying, I saw you losing your shit tonight.” Richie grinned, a little wider, back on solid ground as they bickered. 

“Don’t even. I was just being nice,” Eddie said. His eyes were laser-focused on the ring.

“I can’t believe you’re just sitting there insulting me—”

“Don’t be dramatic—”

“—while I’m asking you to fucking _marry me_ ,” Richie said, pitching his voice a little louder to override Eddie’s rejoinder. 

That successfully shut him up. Eddie covered his mouth with one hand, like he hadn’t known what was happening the whole goddamn time. “So you’re being serious,” he said, muffled by his own skin. “You’re really asking me.”

“ _Yes_. I love you and I want to marry you and honestly I think this is long overdue.” Richie’s knee was starting to hurt. He was too old for this. “Will you marry me?”

Eddie surged forward and landed awkwardly on his knees in front of Richie, pulling him down into a searing kiss. Richie cupped his face with one hand, pressing the open box into Eddie’s back. 

When they parted, Richie grinned down at him. “So yes?”

Eddie laughed, a little wetly. “Oh. Yeah, yes, of course. Yes.”

“Oh good,” Richie said, chuckling. He leaned in to kiss him again.

It was hard to settle down after that, but Richie was so tired that he didn’t really have a hard time falling asleep once he’d finished eating. He and Eddie didn’t normally sleep tangled up anymore (after they left Derry that sort of eased up), but tonight, they reverted back to old habits. Richie could feel the ring digging into his palm as he held Eddie’s hand, and he fell asleep smiling.

* * *

Bev was intolerable for a while after that, calling Richie just to scream about when _Ben_ was going to propose and if he didn’t do it _soon_ then they couldn’t have a _joint-wedding_ —which, honestly, Richie would rather avoid.

But as his tour wore on and he saw Eddie only sparingly and the warm joy of the proposal wore off just a little, Richie started to brainstorm ways to solve the slight, growing depression. So one time when Bev called him two hours before a show, he stopped her before she could start ranting and proposed an idea.

And so the first Reunion was born. 

Exactly one year after the defeat of It, on the anniversary, the Losers gathered in Portland, Maine (the closest any of them would get to Derry again) to have dinner together.

Mike, of course, was there first, and Bill got there soon after. Richie and Eddie arrived together after them, and Richie laughed as Mike tried to shake his hand and Richie used it to tug him into a hug. Bill had no such qualms and embraced him tightly. 

They were chatting about Bill’s newest book when Beverly came in. She only shrieked a little as she ran to hug everybody, and Ben followed in her footsteps, grinning and looking almost like he was glowing. It took ten minutes to settle down after that, because everyone was so off the walls excited to see each other.

Finally, they all sat, and Bev held her left hand out over the table. There was a ring on it.

“And you didn’t _tell us_?” Bill demanded.

“We told you _immediately_!” Eddie said, gesturing between himself and Richie. 

“I wanted to make it a surprise!” Bev said, smiling and shrugging. Everyone chanted their congratulations and gushed over the ring, and a whirlwind of wedding conversation took over for a little while.

Finally, Richie jerked his chin at Ben. “Good for you, picking up on those subtle hints.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t hesitating, I just wanted it to be special.”

“What exactly are you implying?” Richie asked, raising an eyebrow. They all knew how he’d proposed, and while he had to admit that a random hotel room in Boston was not the most _romantic_ of locations, he thought he did okay.

“Oh, nothing.” Ben looked away, eyes wide. 

“Uh-huh.” Richie narrowed his eyes at him. 

“So, how’s the tour going?” Bev asked, perching her chin on her hand. 

“Good. Almost done.” Richie held his hands up prayer-style. He couldn’t wait to be done so he could go back to being a stay-at-home boyfriend. (Husband, later. That made his head spin.)

It was like slipping back into the oldest of habits, like putting on shoes that you’d forgotten fit you perfectly. Talking to these people made Richie feel so instantly relaxed. Halfway through dinner, he looked at Eddie, who was chatting with Mike about his travels. Eddie was animated, and happy, and it made Richie smile.

They talked about everything big and small—wedding prep for both couples, Ben’s job, everybody else’s job, Eddie’s divorce, Bill’s still-successful marriage, Mike’s _very_ interesting dating life. When they finally paid the check and got up to go, Richie felt like no time at all had passed.

* * *

Ben and Bev ended up getting married a full two months before Richie and Eddie did, which only made Eddie a _little_ irate. (Richie wrote a joke about how Eddie had expected that they’d get married first because they got engaged first. It killed. He knew Eddie thought it was funny but he insisted that he didn’t.) Mike officiated, and Richie won the arm-wrestling tournament for the right to walk her down the aisle.

Then Richie and Eddie got married, with two ceremonies—one for just the Losers and their immediate families and companions (such that were left), and then one for all the insane people in both of their professional spheres. Mike ended up officiating those, too. He said he liked it a lot. 

And after that, everything was good. Not perfect—sometimes Richie believed that neither of them would be fully healed from all the shit that happened to them. But he’d run his fingers over the scar on Eddie’s face and remember what got them there, and think about how healing and scars sometimes looked a lot alike. 

_Good_ was plenty good enough. They’d gotten all their memories and friends back, the world was right-side up, they were doing things they enjoyed. Richie and Eddie lived and loved together. 

Can you imagine if it were otherwise?

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Obviously Richie’s joke is stolen from John Mulaney’s Kid Gorgeous, because I’m a writer not a comedian (dammit Jim) and I’m not funny.  
> 2\. I know Maine very well so trust me when I say that everything I wrote about it is a true representation.  
> 3\. I kind of wanted to do a proper sex scene for them but I truly just can’t because it’s Bill Hader and he’s like a sexless dad to me, but like…they definitely fuck lmao.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! hope you liked it.


End file.
